


Now and Then

by mildlymalia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlymalia/pseuds/mildlymalia
Summary: A tale of unlikely friendships, misread signals, deceit, jealousy, and unrequited love over the span of ten years between the Herald of Andraste and her Commander... All while keeping their shared past a secret from her other friends and advisers (or desperately trying to, at least). Can they manage to bury old feelings, for the sake the Inquisition and all of Thedas? Or will they have to face the harsh lesson that the past never truly dies?





	1. Beautiful Lies

**_Maker, she is beautiful_ ** _ , Cullen thought, staring after the mage.  _

_ He never thought about any of them like this. In fact, he hardly thought about the other mages and apprentices at all. If they weren’t summoning demons, performing blood magic, or trying to escape, then Cullen didn’t really have a reason to interact with them. It was the way of the Order, the one he’d strived his whole life to be a part of. He wanted to be that picture-perfect templar… But then  _ **_she_ ** _ arrived. Or rather, she appeared.  _

_ Since finishing his training at 18, he spent a few years in small chantries. But he'd been at Kinloch Hold for the last two years, since he turned 21. She had been in the Circle since she was 8 years old. He’d prodded, as gently as he could, to find out the story to the blue-eyed, golden-haired woman that always had her nose in a book and her fingers tracing along the pages as if she might lose her place at any given moment if she dared to let up. _

_ Cullen sighed, watching her thin, graceful body as she walked by yet again.  _

**_Solona_ ** _.  _

_ Her name was all he had besides her strong preference for ice magic and the way her golden braids, twisted in fashionable buns, glimmered in the candlelight of the main hall. He knew that she liked to read, that she was quiet, and that she followed orders. And she was a favorite of the First Enchanter’s… Which meant she had to be one of the good ones, right? The other templars didn’t know much, and he had to be careful with seeming too interested. Cullen’s cheeks still heated up at the memory of the looks his brothers of the Order had given him. “How do I know where she’s from?” and “Just another bloody mage,” and “Probably murdered her village in her sleep.” Only those types of responses, nothing concrete. _

_ She was shortly joined at her table in the library by a male apprentice with longer, brown hair and tired eyes. And in just moments, this man was able to do something that Cullen had spent the last two weeks trying to build up the courage to do: get her to look up from her books and  _ **_talk_ ** _. Was she smiling?  _ **_Such a beautiful smile…_ **

_ “Oi, Rutherford!” a voice called from behind him. Cullen looked back and saw another templar waving him over, “The Knight Commander wants you to meet with him.”  _

_ Cullen’s amber eyes widened.  _ **_Does he know? Did I ask too many questions? Seem too eager? How could I have been so obvious? So weak?_ **

_ What would they do to him? Send him to a different Circle? Or perhaps they’d send him to hunt for apostates in the Wilds? Something to keep him away and to keep him focused. Maybe… Maybe he could grow to like whatever position they found for him next. Cullen would just be grateful if they gave him anything after such a stupid lapse in judgement like this. An apprentice… And him, a templar? It could never work. It  _ **_would_ ** _ never work.  _

_ He repeated it to himself the entire way up to the Knight Commander’s office.  _

_ The Ferelden Circle, or Kinloch Hold, was not bad for a first assignment. Cullen was excited when he’d first gotten it, especially since it meant that he could be near his family again. If they were sending him away, he’d miss that, having a permanent home. Still, tensions were high. Not as bad as Kirkwall, but not nearly as mundane and boring as Ostwick. There was drama rampant throughout the mages, just to distract themselves from the prison they were in and the lack of control they had over their own lives. Before he’d seen Solona, Cullen had been sick of patrols and hearing idle gossip and giggles, or heated whispers about inner fraternities within the mages. He was only ever told to look out for one: rumors about blood mages.  _

_ The blonde templar’s boots thudded against the stone flooring as he finally made it to Greagoir’s office. There were two templars on either side of the door, guarding it despite the fact that all the mages Cullen had seen scattered like mice whenever the Knight Commander walked into a room. Besides the First Enchanter, anyways. And Solona, too busy with her own studies to even notice.  _

_ “Rutherford,” Greagoir greeted, looking up from his desk. He looked tired, probably arguing with Enchanter Irving again. They were always playing politics, a game that Cullen never found himself interested in. He just followed his brothers’ advice that was given to him in his first week: if you see the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander in the same room, leave as soon as possible before you get roped up into their debates. “Thank you for coming. I have a last-minute assignment for you.”  _

_ “I… I will be happy to serve the Order in any way possible, Knight Commander,” Cullen replied. Because what else could he say? This was who he was now, a soldier that served a commander.  _ **_For a grand purpose,_ ** _ he reminded himself,  _ **_To be the action behind the Chantry’s words, to brighten the light of Andraste throughout Thedas, and to control the darkness of magic._ **

_ The Knight Commander gave a single nod, lifting himself off his desk and stood straight in front of Cullen. He waited for the words, for the accusations.  _ **_Whatever punishment I receive, it is worth it for my lapse of judgment_ ** _. “I know you’ve only been here for a short time,” Greagoir started, “But I think it’s time you did something besides patrol, to get your hands bloody, if you will.”  _

_ Cullen swallowed, his hands tucked behind his back as he stood straight, a picturesque templar waiting to receive his orders. “I’m ready, Knight Commander.”  _

_ “We found an apostate in the Coastlands,” Greagoir said, “It looks like they might have come from the Free Marches, probably Kirkwall the way that place is going. Anyways, they’re being brought in to Kinloch Hold, but I need escorts. I want you to be one of them.”  _

_ An apostate? It was the biggest assignment Cullen had been given so far. The idea of saving the world from a potentially deadly threat had his chest swelling with pride and bravery. A small voice nagged at him that he should be afraid of his own early demise, but he was young and foolish enough to believe that Andraste would be on his side to restore order amongst the Maker’s children.  _

_ “I am ready, sir,” Cullen smiled. _

_ Forgetting there were other people in the room, he almost startled when First Enchanter Irving grumbled, “You could teach your templars to at least try not to look eager about chaining us up.”  _

_ Cullen frowned, not knowing what to say to the senior mage, but luckily Greagoir spoke for him. “Ah, likening yourself to a possible blood mage, Irving?” he asked, smirking indignantly, “Careful. Your fancy title doesn’t grant you immunity from suspicion of corruption.”  _

_ Heeding his brothers’ advice, the young templar went to make a quick exit. “When do I leave, Knight Commander?”  _

_ “Tonight,” Greagoir ordered, though his eyes never broke contact with Irving’s, “Go get your things and meet at the entrance. Eton will be going with you.” _

 

* * *

 

“Commander?” 

Cullen Rutherford startles, realizing he’s spaced off. His sleep schedule has always been terrible anyways ever since he left the Circle, but after everything else in Kirkwall, and now the Temple of Sacred Ashes exploding and the sky opening up on them… Cullen hasn’t even had a chance to close his eyes in  _ days.  _ And now it seems he’s starting to fall asleep between battles of darkspawn. 

Watery, amber eyes blink quickly, taking in the view of icy mountains, dead corpses, and the few soldiers that stand beside him, catching their breaths before the next wave, or their next advancement, whichever came first. He can feel the weight of his army rest back on his shoulders as he remembers where he is, and  _ who  _ he is now. Running a hand through his blonde curls with cold, leather-gloved hands, he looks back at the person speaking to him, a messenger of Leliana’s. 

“What?” he growls, ignoring the way the messenger jumps. Deep down, he knows what people think of him, but he’s too tired, too broken to care anymore. He is done with pretending he can be anyone’s knight-in-shining-armor, including Cassandra and the rest of the Chantry. “Spit it out already.” 

“I, um, the…” they start, and Cullen has to wonder if Leliana’s supposed “agents” are really this poorly trained.  _ It’s no wonder the Chantry has literally fallen _ . The messenger finishes sputtering out, as if sensing his increased annoyance, “Seeker Pentaghast is en route to the bridge, sir. The prisoner is with her .” 

He twists his neck left and right, wincing at the resounding cracks. “Well, let’s hope they don’t drag their feet, then,” Cullen replies, then looks at his men, “Stay alert, soldiers, and get ready for movement.” In truth, he doesn’t have the heart to tell them just how much of a lost cause this seems to be, and just how at odds they are with getting home alive. With the sky torn above them, if they don’t already know, Cullen figures they’re choosing to live in their own fantasy land to make things easier, and he would not rob them of that. 

The messenger gives a stiff nod. “I’m joining Lady Nightingale’s agents who are already up on the mountainside. But we estimate no more than 20 minutes upon the Seeker’s arrival.” 

_ If they make it at all _ . 

Cullen doesn’t even give the agent a last look as he went to join the other spies. It’s a stupid idea, he knows, to go up on that mountain. They need to keep their forces centralized, clear one main pathway to the center of the chaos. But Leliana disagreed, thinking she could get her agents to the center of the temple quickly and more efficiently by evading the path currently littered with darkspawn, and took her forces elsewhere. And maybe she’s right, because even Cullen has to concede that the woman has her experience with darkspawn and beyond-normal situations. Still, Leliana may have fought alongside the Hero of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight, but she was just a pawn back then, a foot soldier. She wasn’t the one calling the shots. No, that responsibility went to one woman alone. 

_ Solona _ . 

The name whispers faintly in the back of his mind again, as if something from the Fade is trying to lure him back into a dream. Reminding him of his young Templar days in the Ferelden Circle, when everything seemed so innocent and Cullen could look at himself in the mirror without contempt. When there was a spring in his step, soul brimming with optimism, and a yearning to one day be someone’s hero... When being a Hero of Ferelden would have been a great honor, and not just an empty title meant to make people feel better about taking someone else’s life to save their own, and he didn’t yet know what loss and regret truly were. 

Suddenly, another hole in the sky rips open. One thing Cullen has always been good at is his ability to keep fighting on, even when others give up. It’s the reason that Cassandra even dragged him away from Kirkwall, he’s sure of it. 

Sword in his hand, Cullen tries to clear his mind, fighting through the withdrawal headaches that constantly persist, past the bitter nostalgia… But he finds that the latter seems to be helping him. Memories of the weeks he’d spent in the Circle Tower, writhing on the floor as demons and darkspawn laughed at and tortured him urge his tired arms to hold his shield tighter and swing his sword harder. Cullen refuses to give up to these abominations, to let what happened to him happen to anyone else. 

“Men!” he shouts above the screeches of the darkspawn, “Fight on! And don’t stop until there’s none of them left!” 

His blade dives into thick flesh that gives way to streams of black blood and gore, foe after foe. Beady eyes meet Cullen’s amber. After all this time, the look in a darkspawn’s eyes haunts him more than any man’s. There’s so much hate and so much  _ hunger _ in them. A hunger for chaos that not even death can distract them from. With a fallen soldier, you see their hopes and their dreams begin to fade away into nothing, tinged with regret and sadness that they’ve met their end. But there is never any end to the darkspawn. There never will be, of that Cullen is sure. 

A couple cries from his left tell him that his soldiers are beginning to fall. Quickly, Cullen turns in the direction to find two of his troops being overwhelmed by a rage demon, body glowing with fire that threatens to stream out of its mouth and roast everything in its path. There is already one blackened body, face unrecognizable, but Cullen knows instantly who it is. Graham, a young man from Kirkwall looking to escape the tatters of his childhood home and find a new beginning elsewhere.  _ Some beginning _ ,  _ dying by fire in the coldest part of Ferelden _ . 

Without hesitation, the ex-templar drives his sword straight into the demon’s back. He ignores its screams and its heat threatening to melt his skin, tightening his hold on it as it thrashes beneath him, scraggly arms trying to reach back and tear at his armor. If it wasn’t for his long cloak, he might have been able to drive his sword upwards and split it near in half. Instead, the rage demon grips onto his furs and tugs  _ hard _ . Enough to throw him off his balance as the smell of burning cloth hit the air. Falling to the ground, swordless, Cullen quickly looks around for a replacement weapon. There are still darkspawn crawling all around them, picking off his soldiers one by one, and still more falling from the hole crackling above them. 

_ Does my new beginning end here, too _ ? Is the fight finally too much for him to pick up the pieces?

As if answering his sudden hopelessness, a blur of dark, faded red and black dashes past him, and the combination of Cassandra Pentaghast’s Nevarran accent and metal clashing fill Cullen’s ears. “Commander!” she yells, their eyes meeting just long enough for him to realize she’s tossing his sword back to him, the rage demon disintegrating and getting sucked back into the Fade, his blade dripping with its ooze. “Keep fighting!” 

Cullen gives a single, grateful nod before beginning another onslaught against the darkspawn. His arms grow more tired with each kill, but there are new hands on deck to help. Arrows shooting past him with such speed and precision that there is only one person that could be, and one crossbow. Varric laughs in the distance as confirmation with each critical shot. Solas, an elven apostate Cullen has only talked to when it was about healing his men, seems the complete opposite. He is calm, quiet, even amidst all this chaos. His old templar veins can feel the magic running through the elf. It is more graceful, natural, and well-practiced than any mage he has ever come into contact with. Cassandra is brutal and relentless. She never stops moving, and even when she does, it’s more on instinct than planned execution. Though he has never said so, her type of fighting almost inspires him when they’re on the battlefield together, and it keeps Cullen from even thinking about surrendering.  

He’s forgotten about the agent’s message, that Cassandra was bringing someone else up the mountain. In fact, the prisoner has completely slipped his mind until the ground begins to shake and the air almost seems to vibrate. His stomach lurches, a new type of magic throwing his body into confusion. And suddenly, the crackling gets louder. Cullen looks up to see the small tear in the sky above them beginning to pulse and flash an unnaturally bright green. 

The darkspawn around them begin to stop in place, clawing at themselves as their shrieks get louder and louder. Quickly turning his body around, there stands the prisoner, her arm outstretched, a sort of green electricity running between her palm and the rift. The hum in the air gets so high-pitched that he can’t even hear the darkspawn anymore, or the surrounding fighting as his soldiers took advantage of their enemies’ current state. He doesn’t see the darkspawn turn into small green pieces of light and get sucked back into the rift, or see the rift itself implode on itself and vanish entirely. He is enraptured, focused on the woman who has brought the calm, a dark-haired elf with her hand still outstretched to the sky, features colored with a confusing mix of relief and fear. 

There is a different type of implosion happening inside himself now. Cullen stares in awe as the prisoner pulls away from the rift breathlessly, her lips, the color of pale, pink rose petals parted. She turns to Solas and grins, a sight that makes Cullen’s heart almost skip a beat. “You’re getting proficient at this,” the elf states proudly, a teacher praising a student. 

“Let’s just hope it works on the big one,” Varric replies dryly, setting Bianca stoutly on his shoulders. 

“Commander,” Cassandra sighs, her features a mix between both of her other party members’ replies: guarded but hopeful. She is the only on e to acknowledge the templars that have actually just fought the majority of the darkspawn, at least until she draws everyone’s attention to him, and Cullen can feel  _ her _ eyes settling on him. “This is the prisoner. It seems the apostate was right; she can help us.” 

The prisoner doesn’t need to tell him that she’s a mage, a powerful one at that, who specializes in fire. Cullen  _ knows _ . She doesn’t need to speak for him to know that a melodic Free Marcher accent would escape. She doesn’t need to tell him anything about herself, not even her name, what her vallaslin means. Cullen knows _ her _ , knows her face, knows her past, knows her dreams. Now overpowering his memories of the Hero of Ferelden is a name Cullen tried long ago to forget, one more bitter and shameful than even Solona’s. 

_ Ellara _ .

She’s older, of course she is. He had only been a young templar and she a young mage just discovering her own powers when they first met. Cullen’s amber eyes rake over her, widening in realization that she’s  _ here _ . Black, silken hair that seems so much longer now but is tied in a braid over her shoulder, so it’s hard to tell. She has the same heart-shaped face with a pointed chin and soft cheekbones, though it seems thinner than before, as did the rest of her. Cullen has to wonder if it’s less to do with losing the softness of youth, or if she's been hit with harder times due to the Mage Rebellion. 

“I… Ell-” After all these years, he’s never even thought… Didn’t think it was  _ possible _ to see her again. But how many times has Cullen gone over in his mind what he wished he  _ could _ tell her if they ever did meet again? 

He doesn’t get a chance before she speaks, a stiff, polite smile painted across her features. There is something different about her eyes, unnaturally different, Cullen only noticing as he realizes she’s trying not to meet his gaze, staring at his forehead instead. “A pleasure to meet you, Commander… Despite the circumstances,” she says, not extending her hand. Instead, she tucks them neatly behind her back, away from him. “I am Ellara, Ellara Lavellan.” 

She has to recognize him, she just  _ has  _ to. Sure, he’s learned how to finally maintain his curls with carefully selected hair products, and age and stress have settled into his features, but she  _ has  _ to know him. After everything… Cullen is sure of it. Which only meant one thing: she’s lying. 

And oh, how Cullen Rutherford knows what a wonderful liar Ellara Lavellan can be. 


	2. Forest Capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellara finds herself the Herald of a religion she's never loved, one that has only ever caused her pain. She finds solace in solitude, but in solitude, she also finds the lingering memories of her first meeting in the woods with Commander Rutherford 10 years ago.

It’s colder than what she’s used to. Ellara can feel it seeping into her thin bones as a shiver runs through her body. Leliana tells her that they’re working on getting her thicker clothes, more leather perhaps, but Ellara knows now that with an Inquisition underway, there’s too many other things going on to focus on her wardrobe.

She’s holed herself up on the outside of Haven in the home of the former apothecary, afraid to get any closer to the center of the town and all the eyes that follow her there. Only Leliana and her agents talk regularly to Ellara, besides a couple visits from Varric, who brings alcohol and laughs, and Cassandra, who lectures her on visiting the people and acting like the  _ Herald of Andraste _ should, inspiring the hopeless. Ellara always wants to throw it back in Cassandra’s face that Andraste and the Maker are foreign gods to her, ones she has never and  _ will _ never stand for. Solas comes by to check every so often to check on her health, but there’s something odd about him that Ellara hasn’t been able to place yet. He’s so terribly guarded, and very prone to lashing out about her Dalish customs, despite the fact that he is no City Elf either. She still can’t decide if she actually enjoys their discourse, or if it’s all just futile debating. 

_ He  _ never shows, the man whose name she still has trouble bringing to her lips. The templar --  _ ex-templar _ , she reminds herself, with blonde curls and a scar on his lip that makes her fingers itch. No, Ellara only sees him in the war room, safely surrounded by Cassandra, Leliana,and Josephine. She’s always careful to avoid him and ducks quickly when she makes her way from the Chantry back to her little cottage, and he never makes any sort of effort to speak to her directly. Instead, his messages come through his soldiers and templars that he assigns to watch her. So far, they’ve been discreet, but he must know her familiarity with the woods and how easily she could find the location of all her hidden guards. 

It was as easy as finding him in the woods near Lake Calenhad, a young templar then with one of his superiors. Ellara vaguely remembers his name being Eton. How similar it all is, from all those years ago, him giving her a prison, neatly wrapped as a safety net. Perhaps he’s still trying to placate her, like he was trained to do. To give freedom where you can allow so the mage doesn’t feel the bars pressing in on her.   
  


* * *

 

_ She could always find calm in the trees, even ones so vast and different from the ones back home in the Free Marches. Alone, 18-year old Ellara Lavellan smiled softly from her perch in the trees. One leg swung down, moving back and forth lazily.  _

_ There were so many things she’d heard about Ferelden, but the two biggest shocks were how absolutely  _ **_accurate_ ** _ they were about the whole place smelling of mud and dogs, and how small the cities actually were. It made her wonder how strong this country really could be that they’d manage to overthrow the Orlesian empire on their own. Now, out on her own, Ellara wanted to see all of it, to never experience life behind city walls ever again. She wanted to roam and explore all that Thedas had to offer. No one was holding her back anymore, not her parents, her sister, or any of the guards in Kirkwall that told Ellara she would be nothing but another lost face in the Alienage.  _

_ The young elf smiled softly as she felt the wind causing a rustling through the leaves, kissing her skin with a cool breeze. It was all so peaceful… Until she felt the first raindrop hit the tip of her nose. Her smile quickly turned into a frown as she glared upwards at the sky. She sent a quick prayer to Sylaise, the elven goddess her father most frequently spoke to in the quiet whispers of night, hoping that she could help her with making her camp ready for a storm.  _

_ Ellara never spent much time outside of Kirkwall. While her father was once Dalish, complete with the gorgeous vallaslin painted across his cheekbones and forehead in a deep, earthy green, he had never taught his city-dwelling husband or children how to survive on their own. He gave up the clan to be with the love of his life, even if it meant spending the rest of his days amongst humans who treated them as nothing. He only ever prayed to his gods when no guards could be around, hoping for a happy home and, as most elves often did, justice.  _

_ All Ellara had to go on was common sense and everything that she’d managed to fit in her bag. Pulling it off her back, she stared at the branches above, trying to figure out a way to drape her leather covering so as to keep her sleeping place dry. She hadn’t even thought of how to secure the tarp, having not gotten that far. Luckily, or not so luckily, a snapping of twigs on the forest floor caused Ellara’s hands to still and her heartbeat quicken.  _

_ “Blasted Storm Coasts,” a deep voice muttered. The sound of metal clanked beneath her -- maybe 20 feet away. “They send us out  _ **_here_ ** _ to find her in the dead of night?”  _

_ “It’s not so bad--” another voice answered, softer and warmer.  _

_ “Yes, it bloody well is,” the first voice replied, “We get the shit’s errand, climbing up steep mountains on foot, dealing with bandits and the like… Do you think the Knight Commander ever leaves his pretty seat in the Tower to be trackin’ down dirty apostates? It’s  _ **_beneath_ ** _ him now, innit? _ ” 

_ “I, uh… Well, wait a minute, I don’t think that’s how the Commander really is,” the second voice defended. It sounded shaky, unsure.  _

_ Lowering herself to the next branch slowly and carefully, Ellara was able to peer down through the trees and see two torches coming closer. The firelight glimmered on their armor, showing who they  _ **_really_ ** _ were.  _ **_Templars_ ** _.  _

_ Her mother had told her to be careful of them, not that Ellara hadn’t already known from the way the templars in the city watched her, as if they could sense her powers growing within her but were waiting until she was a bigger threat, until she came to mature. She could still remember her mother, brown eyes wide as she pulled her daughter close, breathing the words hurriedly into Ellara’s ear.  _ **_Do not let them catch you, if it’s the last thing you do_ ** _ , she remembered,  _ **_Clan Lavellan will find you, but you must escape the templars, do you understand_ ** _? _

_ Ellara could still feel the words deep in her bones. She thought about fighting, of course, but Ellara still had so much to learn with her new powers. A late bloomer, of course, and as soon as her parents had found out, they’d pushed her away, told her that she wouldn’t be safe in Kirkwall and needed to find her father’s old clan to take her in, to give her a free life. All of her training was still to come, and though she wanted to kill them dead, making sure no one could report back about her whereabouts, Ellara held back. Gripping the trunk of the tree, she carefully pulled down the tarp and began folding it, her fingers moving agonizingly slow as the voices got closer.  _

_ “The Knight Commander couldn’t just very likely  _ **_leave_ ** _ the Circle -- not when he’s needed at a moment’s notice,” the second voice continued, “The fact that he’s put us in charge of such a dangerous mission, going out in the wilderness and finding this apostate, w-well… He must think quite highly of us.”  _

_ “Or he finds us the most dispensable,” the first voice grunted.  _

_The idea that they were out looking for_ ** _her_** _had Ellara trying to move faster and faster, her heart beating out of her chest. When she finally had the tarp safely tucked in her pack, the men were almost past her, stopped just ten feet from her tree. Eveln looked down at the forest floor, wondering if she could easily slide down the trunk and duck in the bushes before they saw her._

_ “We should stick it out here,” the second voice said suddenly, causing the pain in her heart to move straight to the pit of her stomach, “At least until it stops raining, set up camp. I doubt whoever is out here is running around in the pitch black.”  _

_ “No… No, we find her tonight. Can’t you  _ **_feel_ ** _ it? The magic in the air?”  _

_ Ellara knew she had to get out  _ **_fast_ ** **.** _ Carefully, she climbed down her tree, just hoping they didn’t hear the slight rustling of leaves over the sound of the rain pelting them.  _ **_Reach with your foot, secure with your hands_ ** _ , she thought to herself as she made her way down. The young mage moved with precision, the conversation of the templars fading into the background as she zoned into her movements. She knew vaguely of what they would do with her, what they  _ **_could_ ** _ do with her. She was almost out free, could see the ground below her. Until, as if sent by Fen’Harel himself, nature betrayed her.  _

_ The last branch broke under her right foot, causing Ellara to yelp at the unexpected loss of security and as her back hit the ground four feet below her.  _

_ Young, amber eyes found her, glimmering in the firelight. If Ellara weren’t afraid for her life, she would have wanted to stop and study them, never having found anyone with that peculiar color of eyes. “There!” he shouted, just as she started to scramble up. “Wait!”  _

_ “Don’t let her get away!” the owner of the first voice shouted. She could see his features now, the older of the two, with dark hair and square jaw. It was hard to tell the color in his eyes, hard to see anything past the hatred and disgust.  _

_ The two charged after her. Ellara could feel her fingers getting hot as flames threatened to escape, but she feared burning down the entire forest. She tried to focus on her magic, thinking  _ **_Ice… Go with ice_ ** **.** _ But her fingers didn’t cool down, and she had no time but to run, run as fast and as far as she could, no matter what the direction. Despite having traversed the forest for the last two days, it still seemed so foreign to Ellara, and inevitably, the other two men caught up, until the older one gripped onto her pack and pulled hard. The templar pulled her up from the ground, lifting and shoving her against the tree. Ellara fought, twisting and screaming, but she knew it was futile. Who would help an elven mage? Who would defend her against the templars, members of the beloved Chantry?  _

_ “Well, aren’t you a pretty, little thing,” the older templar sneered. Her shoulders hurt from the impact of the tree trunk against her shoulders, the wind nearly knocked out of her. The templar inhaled deeply, inching his face closer to her neck. He was so close Ellara could smell the stench of his breath and see his features in much better light. He was younger than both of her parents, perhaps in his late-20s. His thin, pale lips twisted up into a sadistic smile. “And out here all alone… What shall we do with you, then?”  _

_ The elf’s brown eyes narrowed. She had lived in the city of Kirkwall long enough to know what human men thought they could do with elven women. She was only a teenager, still, but that didn’t mean she didn’t get looks, cat calls, or quick grabs in busy crowds. “Depends,” Ellara replied, trying to make her voice sound light despite her ragged breathing and her heart feeling like it was about to beat out of her chest, “How much do you like your face?” _

_ “What’s that?” His smile faltered slightly, not expecting her response.  _

_ “Touch me, and I will melt it right off your pathetic excuse for a head,” she spat, using all her might to give one last kick squarely between his legs.  _

_ The older templar groaned, dropping her and turning his attention to his injury. “You little bitch!”  _

_ It was Ellara’s turn to smile as she stood up, ready to take off again into the night. And she would have to, if it wasn’t for that pesky, younger templar. He had been standing there the entire time, completely quiet, watching with wide eyes. However, due to his silence, Ellara had forgotten about him until he managed to dispel her magic, sucking everything out of her until her body collapsed, hands desperately reaching out to find purchase in the dirt, to pull herself back up and escape her captors.  _

_ “I-I’m sorry,” the younger one stammered, moving over to her and taking a hold of her arms. He twisted them around her back. Ellara moaned weakly as she felt the rope around her wrists. “We won’t h-hurt you. Not if you behave yourself, do you understand?”  _

_ “As if that’s bloody likely,” the older templar croaked, still nursing his groin.  _

_ The younger one went on as if his colleague hadn’t spoken at all. “You’re to be escorted to Kinloch Hold, where you will join the Ferelden Circle, register, and train under the eye of the Chantry. Any… Any r-resistance is futile and will only cause yourself more p-pain.”  _

_ He hoisted her up to a standing position. Ellara wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was so dry after his mana drain. “Now… Um… Tell us your name.” He was trying to be stern, but Ellara didn’t think he was necessarily succeeding at it. Was he new to being a templar? She studied his face, trying to figure him out and see if he could be a weakness, the person secretly holding her escape. But he just looked seriously back at her with those amber eyes and tight blond curls, with the faintest hint of facial hair that made him look, at least, like he was new to being his own man.  _

_ “Yours first,” she replied, tilting her pointed chin up in defiance.  _

_ The templar almost smirked, but quickly hid it before she could see it fully form. Cocking one eyebrow, he said instead, “You know, you’re not in the best position to be issuing demands.” He pulled on the rope leash attached to her wrists to emphasize his point. “We’ll need to register you.”  _

_ Ellara pressed her lips together, thinking. She didn’t want to give her real name, didn’t want her family to find out that she’d failed, that she’d been caught. “Evelyn,” she lied. The name she almost had been given if her City elf mother had had her way. But her father insisted on a true elven name, and so they settled on Ellara. She did as her father and mother taught her to when she had to lie. Looking squarely into the templar’s eyes, her brown eyes almost begged him to call her a liar. She squared her shoulders and raised an eyebrow. “Happy? It’s Evelyn.”  _

_ “Cullen,” the younger templar said, giving a small nod. Nothing on his face portrayed that he didn’t believe her, and Ellara had to resist audibly breathing a sigh of relief. “M-my name, that is. Cullen Rutherford. And this is Eton-”  _

_ “You don’t need to exchange  _ **_pleasantries_ ** _ with the damn thing!” the older templar, Eton, growled, standing up finally and grabbing the leash from Cullen’s hands. He yanked on the rope, jerking Ellara forward. “Keep her drained until we get back to camp. She can prove herself useful after that and start us a warm fire, now can’t you, wench?”  _

_ Ellara only had to look back a split second to see the expression on Cullen’s face, the way he winced at Eton’s harsh language. Her heart began to flutter with hope, extinguishing even the pain from the rope burns searing themselves onto her wrists with each one of Eton’s tugs.  _

_ The younger templar might be her escape after all… If she played her cards right _ . 

 

* * *

 

Ellara sighs, stretching out on the floor of the cabin in front of the fireplace. Memories swirl of that night in the forest, and even later, her time in the Circle. She wishes that she could replace the Commander she has now with the young man he once was. Even in their brief glances, she can see too much has changed with him. From the few words he’s spoken, he no longer stammers. He is firm and confident, and she knows it’s because he’s experienced too much pain in the past to waste his time on pointless words and extra, repeated syllables. 

This man knows her tricks and her tells, and he won’t fall for the same routines as before. Escaping will require  _ real  _ time and effort, careful planning. Ellara is no longer arguing with a young templar, but a commander of an army, the ex-Knight Commander of Kirkwall. 

Her hand crackles and spits out green light, as if reminding Ellara that the ex-templar isn’t the only thing standing in her way. Whatever happened to her in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the scar left from it is something she can’t ignore. Even if she tried and ran back to Clan Lavellan, the Keeper would never let her. She’s almost as eager as Leliana and Cassandra for Ellara to continue playing the Herald of Andraste, urging her to save the world for her clan, and make a name for elves in the history books. A name besides the ancient whispers and slave stories that currently filled their past. 

Ellara closes her eyes and gives a small shake of her head before sitting up and marching to the door. She doesn’t care that the templars will be watching from their carefully calculated distances, doesn’t care that anything she does, whether it’s picking up a rock or pissing in the trees, will go back to her advisors, and specifically,  _ him _ . She needs air, and at least a moment where she can pretend that escape is possible. So eager, Ellara doesn’t even grab a coat, but the cold air doesn’t hit her as hard as the face greeting her as soon as she opens the door, his leather-gloved hand poised to knock. 

_ Cullen Rutherford _ . 

“Oh, u-um…”  _ Maybe he  _ does  _ still stutter _ , Ellara thinks quickly. Clearing his throat, Cullen tries again, tucking his hands neatly behind his back. “Good evening, Herald,” he says politely, giving a small nod. She wonders if he somehow already knows that she hates that title, and especially hates it on  _ his  _ lips. 

“Commander Rutherford,” she replies curtly, unable to help herself, “Don’t tell me the Inquisition’s forces are so low, they’re having  _ you  _ babysit me now?” 

He frowns, bringing to attention that damned scar on his lip. She remembers that scar, but everything else about him is so entirely  _ new _ . His hair falls in gentler curls instead of the tightly knit ones. He has lines in his brow from spending too many nights worrying over reports and strategy maps, and he looks so terribly  _ tired _ . Ellara almost feels sorry for him, but satisfaction wins over when she sees the glare he’s giving her before composing himself. He was never quite good at that before, and he isn’t so much now either. “Ah, no, actually… I think… I mean…” He sighs, irritated, altohugh if it’s with himself or her, Ellara isn’t sure. “We need to talk. Now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope the background changes aren't too drastic... 
> 
> The idea of this fic started with an idea I got of Cullen pining for the Hero when she was still living at the Circle, and the Herald pre-Inquisition being there to laugh at him being absolutely terrible at wooing women while also falling terribly in love with him herself. When I decided to make the Inquisitor an elf, I had to work around the Dalish beginnings and figure out how to get her to the Ferelden Circle... 
> 
> Which there's still more to learn about! Next chapter! Stay tuned! Yeah! Exclamation points!


	3. Small Talk & Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen appears at the Herald's door with a deal... But his grasp on political talks leaves him at a disadvantage as the two find themselves reminiscing on a dark night from their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Just a warning with this chapter that there's some attempted rape. I didn't get too graphic with it, but if this is something that you do get triggered by, please feel free to skip that part. It's during the second flashback and can easily be skipped over. 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to leave some feedback. I did change some things with the previous chapters. I decided to make Ellara have black hair instead of red. Small detail, but I just kept imagining her with darker hair. :P

Cullen doesn’t expect her to let him in, but she does.  _ Maybe she has changed more than I thought _ , he mused. Because the Ellara he knew didn’t give in so easily.  _ Or maybe she’s more afraid of me now _ . And could he blame her, after everything? 

Though they only ever spoke briefly in the council meetings, Cullen has admittedly kept a close eye on the elf. He directed his soldiers to give detailed reports on her every movement, telling himself that it’s because he has to make sure she doesn’t try escaping again, that she’s a very powerful mage and it’s still his duty to make sure she stays in check. But really, deep down, he knows he’s being nosy, trying to get closer to her as she pushes him further away, hides in her little corner in the woods, as she pretends not to know their past at all.

It’s quiet in her little home, what was once the old apothecary’s cottage. He sits at the table, picking at a piece of wood idly, averting his gaze, while she pretends to be more busy than she actually is, fiddling with only the two mugs she has and pours hot, black liquid into each one slowly. He can’t believe that not only has Ellara Lavellan let him  _ inside _ , but she’s also playing  _ hostess _ . 

Finally, she sits down, and despite the fact that Cullen has spent this entire time trying to think of something to say, his entire mind goes blank the moment their eyes meet. There’s only the crackling fire and their breathing for one loaded moment, and he almost wishes that they could start screaming at each other like they used to. It had to be better than… This. 

“Your eyes are different,” Cullen blurts, breaking the moment. It’s all he can think of as he stares into those bright, green irises. If he looks long enough, it almost looks like the green is moving in slow swirls, like a calm, fluorescent pond. 

Ellara frowns, her brows knitting together. “My… Eyes?” she repeats, then looks down at her coffee, as if checking her reflection in the dark liquid. He can’t tell from this angle as she tilts her chin down, but it almost looks like she’s smirking. “You came here to talk about my  _ eyes _ ?” 

“I-Well, no!’ he replies defensively, his own eyes widening at how ridiculous he sounds, “Maker’s breath…” 

“Commander-” 

He shakes his head. “No, I’m not  _ good  _ at these things…” he sighs, “Small talk… Politics…”  Frustrated, the ex-templar pulls off a leather glove and tosses it on the table between them before running his fingers through his blonde locks. When he looks back up, she’s still staring, quiet and steady. She never used to be so quiet and steady. She used to be a spitfire, alive and kicking. Did he do this to her? “They’re not why I came here, but  _ Maker _ , they’re different… Or, sorry, are we keeping up the facade that we’re strangers in private, as well?” 

She looks surprised that he brings it up, her lie on the mountain, but it’s irritated Cullen ever since.  _ Why _ ? Why did she lie? Why doesn’t she want people to know? “I… They changed colors,” Ellara finally replies, swallowing. He remembers how her eyes used to be as brown as the warm coffee in their hands, how friendly and kind they appeared, and terribly mischievous,  no matter what she did. “After the explosion, I’m guessing, because they were perfectly fine when I arrived at the Temple.” 

“Explains the color… It’s like-” 

“The rifts, yes,” Ellara finishes, and her voice almost sounds bitter, “Solas says he’s not sure why they’re like that, if it means anything dangerous. He said to view it simply as a side effect.” 

He’s not sure why she’s upset about the change, but Cullen tries to soothe it. “Well, I-I liked them before, but… They’re not terrible now. I, uh, see you’ve gotten your vallaslin as well. It looks nice.” 

This time, she actually does smirk, but it seems empty. “Tell me why you’re really here, Cullen. You’re right; politics and small talk never suited you much.” 

 

This is the heavy part. For the past week, they’ve been preparing for the Herald --  _ Ellara _ , he reminds himself, still trying to reconcile that they’re one and the same -- for a trip to the Hinterlands. The Inquisition has finally begun, and her face is the one people want to see behind the movement. They want to see the woman that Andraste herself pulled out of the Fade, even if she is an elf. And her first mission is to find a hole in the strategy of the Chantry, as well as to spread their reputation as far and wide, gain as many allies as they can, in the heartland of Ferelden. It’s a heavy task, but because he knows her, Cullen  _ knows  _ she’s capable… If she doesn’t try running off first. 

There is one argument that everyone has been having in and out of the war room: who to ally with? Cullen can slowly feel his voice being drowned out by Leliana, who insists that mages are the way, as Josephine and Cassandra have begun to back her. He  _ knows  _ what Ellara’s automatic choice would be, and he knows why… But… 

“I need you to be more careful in considering your meeting with the rebel mages,” Cullen says slowly, trying to sound as diplomatic as he can, “I want you to visit the templars instead,  _ ally  _ with them. They’re the safer option with closing the Rift… And I  _ feel  _ as if they need our help, as well.” 

Ellara shakes her head, casting the warm firelight off her raven hair. “Don’t-” 

“We are not all bad!” Cullen cuts her off, breaking it down to what Ellara is  _ really  _ afraid of, what is really at the root of her hatred for the templars. “For every bad templar, there is another good man willing to serve the true cause, don’t you remember? There were good men in the Circle, too. Remember when we first met? Remember camping in the Bannorn?” 

She winces, and Cullen almost hates himself for bringing it up. After that night, Ellara never wanted to remember it again, and Cullen only encouraged her to bury it deep down, never bringing it up himself. But he needs her to remember now. He needs her to think not just about the bad, but the good as well. 

 

* * *

  
  


_ It was their third night camping.  _

_ They had made their way through the Storm Coast and were halfway through the Bannorn, where the weather and terrain treated them much nicer. And, of course, there were actually  _ **_people_ ** _ here, hospitable ones at that too. They slept and camped on the lands of religious farmers and banns that wanted to aid the Chantry in whatever way they could. Children in town waved at the two templars as if they were heroes from a storybook, while men and women passed by them nodded and bowed with respect. Cullen thrived on it, recalling his own youthful days of looking up at the tall and mighty templars, wishing to be them. _

_ “They never quite believed me, no matter how hard I begged to join the Order,” Cullen said, smiling softly. It was just the two of them, him and the captured elf who went by Evelyn. All she’d given him was her name. That, and silence. But the silence was easier without Eton there, he had to admit. Cullen had hoped he’d become great friends with his traveling partner, but there were some… Differences between the two. None that he liked to dwell on, in fear of becoming disillusioned with the Order entirely.  _

_ Luckily, Eton had taken advantage of the good-natured farmer who they’d met earlier in the afternoon and had given them permission to make camp. In their silence, above the frogs and crickets chirping, and the crackling of the campfire, Cullen could faintly hear his comrade drunkenly laughing away with the farmer and his two sons, though he couldn’t quite hear just what they were laughing about. All he knew was that they’d been drinking for at least the last two hours, meaning that Cullen was going to be on apostate watch for the next two shifts, despite his tired limbs and dry eyes.  _

_ “I mean, obviously they believed me eventually,” Cullen continued, taking a sip from his own water pouch, “I was a bit of a late bloomer, though. Anyways, after training, I spent some time in the Chantries around Ferelden until a spot opened at the Circle… And I’ve been there ever since.”  _

_ Across from the fire, Evelyn didn’t even look at him. Her dark eyes stayed focused on the fire, as if trying to bend them to her control. Cullen knew with certainty that she couldn’t, not when he could still feel the lyrium singing through his own veins and drawing hers out. She looked as tired as he felt, and seeing her tied to a nearby tree with a rope… A pang of guilt hit him in his gut. It didn’t help that she still had a small black eye from the first night at camp, when she’d tried escaping. Eton had put that to an end quickly, punching the young girl square in the face and knocking her off her feet.  _ **_This is the will of the Chantry_ ** _ , he told himself,  _ **_Once she’s in the Circle, she’ll get better_ ** _.  _

_ He let loose his leash just a little bit, enough for her to give a small smile of gratitude before turning her fingertips to ice and stroking her cheekbone. Cullen let her have little moments, but all it’d done was bring down the swelling, doing nothing for the stripe of purple. “He’s not normally like that,” Cullen heard himself saying again, for the umpteenth time, “The Circle is better, I promise, Evelyn. Once you’re behind those walls, you’ll be safe.”  _

_ “Like chickens locked in a hen house with a fox,” she muttered.  _

_ Cullen frowned. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. It’s different there, despite the stories.”  _

_ Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Of course you’d say that. You’re one of the foxes; you’re not the one living every day in fear that the wrong move, words, or the wrong tone are going to get you beaten, or worse, castrated of all feelings.”  _

_ “N-now, that’s not a  _ **_regular_ ** _ practice, and it takes a lot of evidence and observation before a mage becomes Tranquil-”  _

_ “A talking vegetable,” Evelyn corrected, and the cocky way she carried herself, her arms crossing over her chest, made Cullen’s blood begin to heat. He’d never met a mage so obstinate and opinionated. Even her  _ **_silence_ ** _ held anger and defiance. Every other mage normally ducked their heads around him and whispered, scared and meek.  _

_ “Better a t-talking vegetable than a destructive maleficar!”  _

_ “Oh, and you and your fancy Order are the ones that get to make that decision, hm? You’re guided more by prejudice and fears than you are logic, the whole lot of you.”  _

_ “We are not!” Cullen continued to argue. He never was the type to go back and forth like this. Growing up, his older sister, Mia, was always too smart for him, always a couple steps ahead of any argument he might have tried making. She’d refute or dismiss them all before he’d even managed a single syllable. Meanwhile, Branson and him just settled things with some physical competition, and his youngest sister, well, she was much too small and sweet to ever dream of questioning her oldest brother. But a strange, defiant creature was rearing its head in his chest and refused to let this young woman insult him and his templar brothers.  _

_ “Without us, mages would be weak. They’d never set their own limitations,” he continued, “Mages going unchecked brought us the Blights. Templars are the ones standing in the way of that… But also much more! They  _ **_balance_ ** _ , not control. They  _ **_guide_ ** _ and  _ **_protect_ ** _. They protect mages from the regular people that will never understand or trust magic, just as they protect the people from mages that will never understand self-control and morality over power.”  _

_ She narrowed her brown eyes, staring at him curiously before smirking. “You lost your stutter,” she said, coolly, “Is that just something when you get angry?”  _

_ Cullen blinked, finding himself reeling in this conversation that went so up-and-down so rapidly. He couldn’t quite get a read on this girl besides that she most certainly would be trouble. He caught himself wondering if letting her into the Circle was a good idea. She thought the templars were the foxes, but Cullen would argue that Evelyn had it the wrong way ‘round. He vowed at that moment to keep a closer eye on her.  _

_ He opened his mouth to speak, hoping that a stutter didn’t come out so as to ruin the moment, but he was interrupted by a loud belch and the sound of metal lightly clanking. They both looked over to see Eton walking up to the campfire, a cup of ale still in hand. He swayed slightly, his longer, brown hair greasy and hanging over his face. “Don’t tell me you’re still tryna talk to this thing?” he chuckled, motioning to Evelyn. Cullen’s eyes followed the motion, noticing the way she immediately withdrew once more.  _

**_At least I know now that anger is what makes her come out_ ** _ , he thought, though Cullen could feel the guilt in his stomach grow even more when he remembered his own ranting. _

_ “I was just telling her about what it’s like at the Circle,” Cullen replied, clearing his throat and looking away from the raven-haired girl. The guilt lessened when he couldn’t actually see her, and he wasn’t sure why.  _

_ “It’s heaven on earth,” Eton chuckled darkly, “Anyways, shift swap, Rutherford. I’ll take over from here.”  _

_ Cullen sighed, standing up and brushing off his armor. He couldn’t wait to get it all off and be back in the privacy of his tent, away from judgmental eyes. He wanted to think about his soft bed in Kinloch Hold, or the library with warm sunlight streaming down on a particular blonde mage’s smooth skin. It had been a little bit over a week, and already he was almost forgetting her face, blue eyes replaced with the brown ones that followed him everywhere around their campsites.  _

_ Finding sleep wasn’t easy. Cullen’s mind insisted on mulling over Evelyn’s words again and again. He had never heard someone talk about the templars like that. Townspeople only ever held respect for the Chantry and everyone who worked within in. The mages, well, they never seemed to voice any opinions at all, besides First Enchanter Irving, but even his most pointed remarks were never as sharp.  _

_ Outside, he could hear Eton’s voice faintly, but Evelyn was silent once more. Cullen didn’t care to listen to Eton’s drunken ramblings, and after counting at least 247 druffalos, he finally found sleep.  _

_ If only temporarily.  _   
  
  


* * *

 

He can tell she’s fighting it. The memory Cullen is pulling out of Ellara… It isn’t fair. But it’s one of the few shining moments he had in their brief friendship, and if he can use it to his advantage… As much as he hates it, Cullen knows it can help save the templars. So he continues to play to her weakness, reminding the elven woman of a moment in time where she wasn’t strong enough, when she needed him. 

“I helped you,” Cullen reminds her gently, “I stayed true to our cause-” 

“Your  _ cause  _ is what put me in danger,” Ellara spits, her fingers gripping her cup so hard that her knuckles turn white, “You think I would have needed any help from you if I wasn’t tied up to a tree and half-starved? You got your little gifts from the villagers, but I was the filthy apostate, Cullen. I got whatever leftovers you had, and even then, Eton would take it away when you weren’t looking.”

It’s not surprising to hear now, although the person he was all those years ago would have been to naive to ever guess it. Now he knows that not all templars are true heroes of Thedas. His rose-tinted glasses had long ago broken, but Cullen thinks about all his brothers, all the  _ good  _ ones that just want to keep the world safe, the men who have suffered from lyrium addiction for years and will eventually die from its withdrawals, worn and withered on the side of a filthy street, no honor to their names. He wants to save as many of them as he can. 

“Ellara, you can’t let the resentment of one or two templars sway you into condemning the entire Order.” 

The elf smirks, and he tries not to stare at her pink lips too long. She sighs and takes a long sip of her coffee before looking back up at him. “You still think I’m as impulsive as I was when we first met, don’t you?” Cullen doesn’t deny it.  _ Impulsive  _ is a very good word to describe how he sees Ellara. She answers his silence with a humorless chuckle. “Well, at least I know your thoughts now on my ‘Herald’ status.” 

He frowns. “I didn’t mean to insult you.” 

“You never do, do you?” Ellara asks. She sets her cup down and gives him a hard look, before she stands. “You just came here to have our first conversation in  _ years _ , not to apologize or re-connect, but to save your templars. And you do so by trying to bring up  _ your  _ heroic moment,  _ knowing  _ it was a moment of weakness for me? Knowing the trauma I suffered? No, politics never were your strong point, Commander, and that certainly hasn’t changed over the years.” 

“If you’ll just listen to me-” He stands, but even with her smaller size, the way she points her chin upwards and glares at him causes Cullen to feel like Ellara truly stands taller. 

“No,” she cuts him off, refusing to listen to more, even as his amber eyes plead with her, “You see, Commander Rutherford, I’ve thought carefully about the Mage Rebellion… And I am picking the mages to ally not because I hate all templars.” She moves towards the door and opens it, waving one arm out to motion for him to leave. “I’m picking them because they deserve their freedom just as much as I do… And because, no, while not all templars are bad… But what happens when the good templar turns his back? Who do we mages go to then? Who do you think  _ I _ had to turn to?”

“You always had me.” 

“I never had you,” she murmurs, “Now, please. Leave.” 

Cullen doesn’t want to say that he failed, but perhaps he has. Maybe appealing to Ellara is as hopeless as Maferath asking Andraste to forget his betrayal, to focus on the good of their marriage and remember him based solely on that? Surely, there were things even a saint could look past… 

He leaves his cup half-filled and only realizes now that he never even took off his fur coat. Heavy boots thud against the wooden floor until Cullen crosses the threshold into the cold air of the Frostbacks. He inhales deeply, then turns back to wish Ellara good night, at least. But before he manages, the door is shut, and the lock clicks. 

Looking forward once more, Cullen glances at the spots he has his soldiers watching. She must think he considers himself her babysitter.  _ Perhaps she’s insulted _ , he thinks, but he knows that his actions are only a compliment to her power. Because even back then, even when they’d first met and she was just a young mage figuring out her own powers… Her magic was one of the most powerful and  _ raw  _ he’d ever seen. He’s covered for her when she’s lost control, seen her in her most wild moments. 

The snow crunches under his feet as the blonde templar makes his way back to the tents just outside Haven’s small lake. The other soldiers are laughing and exchanging stories around the campfires while the crack in the sky pulses softly above them.

The smell of the campfire and the soft, sickly smell of poorly made ale, all they can afford despite Josephine’s connections, make stab wounds in his chest as he remembers what happened when he woke up all those years ago. The sound of a man grunting and a young girl’s muffled cries, the soft rustle of tree branches swaying and shaking…   
  
  


* * *

 

 

_ At first, Cullen wasn’t sure which of the noises had caused him to wake up. It could have been Eton or the tree, or perhaps the sound of armor hitting the ground or a sword being kicked away from a captured, young girl looking for any way out. One thing he knew for sure though was that it was the quiet cries of Evelyn that caused his gut to twist and his body to shoot out of his bed before he could even think a second thought.  _

**_We’re under attack_ ** _ , he thought, naively,  _ **_Bandits. It has to be bandits… Where is Eton_ ** _? _

_ Fear ran through the young templar at the idea of facing numerous men by himself, of being able to get Evelyn out of the fray safely. Quickly finding his sword, he tightened his grip and darted out of his tent. He thought he would see common thieves ravaging their camp, stealing what small possessions they had. What Cullen saw instead… It almost broke him.  _

_ The fire was low, obviously not attended to as it should have been. In the shadows, he saw two moving figures in the dark near Evelyn’s sleeping area. The tree shook sharply as her cries continued, muffled from the other person’s pale hand on her mouth. “Quiet, bitch,” the figure muttered, and Cullen’s stomach twisted even further when he  _ **_knew_ ** _ the voice, “Don’t want to wake Blondie up, d’ya?”  _

_ Cullen could feel hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes and rage beginning to fill his veins. “No!” he shouted suddenly and dove forward, shoving Eton off of the young elf, tackling him to the ground. In the back of his mind, he knew this situation was ridiculous, wrestling with a man that had his pants down to his knees, but all Cullen could think of was the fact that  _ **_he_ ** _ had tied Evelyn to the tree.  _ **_He_ ** _ had stripped her of her powers… He hadn’t given her a chance at fighting back against this. Cullen knew that he had to fix this, or else he’d completely fail her.  _

_ Luckily, fighting Eton was no difficult feat. He was still absolutely drunk, and with one swift punch to the side, Cullen was able to keep him still enough to roll him over onto his back, pinned with his hands behind him. “Ow, ow, fucking  _ **_ow_ ** _!” Eton protested, his speech slurred, “If ye wanted a turn with the thing, all ye had to do was ask.”  _

_ “Shut up!” Cullen growled, “Don’t say another word.”  _

_ “Aw, come on. You know what they say about elves. Smaller bodies, smaller-”  _

_ Cullen tightened his grip. “You will not  _ **_touch_ ** _ her ever again.” Looking up, he met eyes with Evelyn. In the dim lighting of the dying fire, he could just make out her features. Her swollen lips, her light tunic torn, and bruises on her arms in the shape of handprints from metal gloves. Her smallclothes are still on, luckily, but he can see streaks of dirt from where Eton had been trying to pry them off… At least, before he’d been tackled. The blonde tried not to focus on her too much, or Cullen feared he would completely snap on Eton. Quickly, he released his hold on her mana. “Can you get yourself out? Snap the rope?”  _

_ She sniffled softly, and a tear fell down her cheek. “Yes,” she responded, “Just… I need a minute.”  _

_ “You can’t be  _ **_serious_ ** _ ,” Eton muttered from beneath Cullen, “She  _ **_asked_ ** _ me, was begging practically. Said she was tired of sitting around all day and needed a little fun, innit that right, little knife-ear?” _

_ They were the wrong words. Cullen saw the fire build in her eyes before her hands began to glow a bright orange. “Wait-!”  _

_ Before he could talk her out of it, Evelyn lived up to her promise.  _ **_How much do you like your face?... Touch me, and I will melt it right off your pathetic excuse for a head._ **

_ Cullen dove away just as a blast of fire shot out from the mage. The next thing he knew, Eton was screaming, hands frantically going to the exposed side of his face. The air filled with a foul, acrid smell of burning flesh and hair, as half of Eton’s dark mane became nothing but embers and ash. He slowly raised his eyes from the horror show to see Evelyn staring down at Eton darkly, her hands still glowing. His templar training screamed at him to drain her mana again, but Cullen couldn’t bring himself to do it.  _

_ “Evelyn!” he shouted, but she didn’t look away, and the fire didn’t fade from her hands. “Evelyn!...  _ **_Lavellan_ ** _!”  _

_ Finally, she looked away, turning to Cullen, but the fire in her eyes still pierced him, murder clear on her mind. He swallowed, trying not to let his fear get the best of him. “U-um… Rope. Get the rope so we can tie him.”  _

_ The rope that held her was burnt to a crisp, but with his careful directions, she managed to dig it out of his tent and get it tied tightly -- a bit  _ **_too_ ** _ tightly, although Cullen didn’t correct it -- to Eton’s wrists, which were rigid and still clenching as he wimpered at his fresh burns. The younger templar tried not to vomit at the smoke rising from his face. “Do you want me to heal him?” Evelyn asked, her voice tense, as they finally got Eton secured.  _

_ Cullen surveyed the situation and pursed his lips. He could still feel adrenaline and anger running through his body. “Yes,” he muttered, “But not yet. He deserves  _ **_some_ ** _ pain.”  _

_ “He deserves worse,” she disagreed, but they didn’t argue any further on it. Instead, he moved to the fire, adding more wood, knowing now that he was going to have to work alone on this mission. Cullen was too tired and too emotional, robbed of the idea that the Order, that his  _ **_Knight Commander,_ ** _ could let someone like Eton work for them. And maybe part of him didn’t argue because he agreed with Evelyn and just wasn’t ready to admit it yet. “Are you going to tie me back up, too?”  _

_ The question caught him off guard. Cullen dropped another log in before turning back to answer the young elf. Again, his eyes roamed over her wounds, and this time he could see the fear in her wide eyes. He should have. Protocol would be to make sure the mage was secured and unable to use her magic. “No,” he answered, surprising even himself, “I… I need someone to help me with camp. If we move quickly tomorrow, we can get to Kinloch Hold by evening.”  _

_ “What if I try to escape?”  _

_ “Then I know what you look like, and I tell the Chantry what you did,” Cullen replied, “They’ll chase you, and when they do eventually catch you… They won’t try to put you in the Circle.”  _ **_They’ll make you Tranquil_ ** _ , he thought, but he didn’t say it. It didn’t matter. The threat hung in the air between them.  _

_ Evelyn gave him a long stare, as if trying to find weakness in him once more. He wondered briefly if she found it, but her next sentence made him think that maybe something had changed. “I almost like you better when you stutter,” she said, and then after another long pause, she continued, “Thank you… For saving me. I, um… My real name… It’s Ellara.”  _

_ “You  _ **_lied_ ** _?”  _

_ “Yes, but I’m not anymore,” she shrugged, “You trust me, and I suppose… I trust you. For now.”  _

 

* * *

  
  


_ Who do you think I had to turn to? … I never had you. _

He remembers so clearly that he was  _ there _ . He  _ saved  _ her. She had thanked him, given him her real name  _ and  _ her trust. 

Cullen peels off his armor piece by piece, his mind swirling. He remembers getting back to Kinloch Hold the next day, the curious looks he’d gotten from Knight Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving when he explained the half-healed burns on Eton, telling them the full story on how the mage had been attacked, how she only fought in self-defense. He’d secured her a bed in the Circle and demoted Eton to a strict guard duty by the front doors. 

He gave her a safe haven and a chance at a new start. 

_ But what happens when the good templar turns his back? … I never had you.  _

As he climbs into the hard mattress, there is only one thought on Cullen’s mind. It isn’t how he failed the templars in convincing the Herald to save them, or how he plans on convincing his men to accept their new allies once they were secure. He doesn’t know how he failed her with Eton. He knows she vanished one day, but First Enchanter never told him why or where exactly she went to. He didn’t even think to ask, at the time, didn’t consider it for several months after her disappearance. 

Cullen has failed Ellara once, but things are different now. He is the Commander of the Inquisition and she, the Herald. He closes his eyes, fists clenching at his sides. His last thought before sleep overtakes him, before the nightmares begin as they often do, is that he will not fail her again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I've been lurking on AO3 for years, but this is my first time posting anything, and the first time I've written something for the DA fandom. 
> 
> I have a second chapter written that I'll post with this one so that everyone can get a good feel of the story. There's some changes in the backstory of Inquisitor Lavellan that I made, which I'll go over next chapter! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and please let me know if you're interested in the series (or if it sucks, so I can try to make it less suck-y)!


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